


The Artifice of Our Affection

by Hallianna



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Comfort Sex, Comfort/Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-13
Updated: 2013-07-13
Packaged: 2017-12-19 09:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/881978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hallianna/pseuds/Hallianna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He always watched her from the shadows.  She drove him crazy in all the right and wrong ways and she knew it.  The shadows wouldn't keep her, or his feelings for her, at bay for long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Artifice of Our Affection

**Author's Note:**

> Every plot device and stumble is an excuse to get these two in bed together. Complete and utter angsty porn, the kind I rarely write but when it bites me in the ass, I have no choice. Quote is from a favorite book. All characters NOT mine, owned by Bioware, etc. etc. I make no money from this fan work.

_“Perhaps that is our doom, our human curse, to never really know one another. We erect edifices in our minds about the flimsy framework of word and deed, mere totems of the true person, who, like the gods to whom the temples were built, remains hidden. We understand our own construct; we know our own theory; we love our own fabrication. Still . . . does the artifice of our affection make our love any less real?”_

_― Rick Yancey, The Monstrumologist_

 

He always watched her from the shadows. Daylight revealed too much, and candles cast too many shadows, long stretching things that gave away movement easily.  So he was content to watch her in the semi-darkness, safe from observation and scrutiny.  He liked the way the dark curled up around him, keeping his face hidden, his hands out of sight.  He'd been watching her since before they'd ever properly met.  But after just a few days in her presence, he'd been impressed. But he'd been impressed before by a pretty face and some skill in a fight. And that had burned him deeply, betrayal and heartache all wrapped up in a nice little package. But the more he was with her, the more he watched her, he began to understand. This woman was different, steady and true and just innocent enough to make him aware of her.

It made her dangerous to him.  So he'd taken to watching her with a level of _academic_ interest, he told himself.  Purely for the stories and the banter and the adventures.  But Hawke was....Hawke.  And she was a hard thing to be around.

This awareness, as distracting and dangerous as it was, wasn't always there. On normal days (as normal as they had), they roamed Kirkwall, took jobs, fought battles, collected coin, and drank away their nights. Hawke would be there, a solid, steady force as they fought back to back until the job was done.  But then she would do something, something so imperceptible to those with untrained eyes.  But he saw it, and he could almost fool himself into thinking she had done it for him. A toss of her head to make her honey brown hair shine in the sun; a smirk that disappeared as fast as it flitted across her face; or his favorite, a beautiful smile that lit her face and made tendrils of heat flick at his long buried desire. This was the Hawke he watched, looking for clues as to what made this woman tick.

It could happen any time, for any reason, like it did tonight.  

It had all been fairly normal.  They'd wiped out a band of raiders, hoping the promise the mysterious woman had made them - money if they cleaned up the streets - held up. The gold would be good, and Maker knew they could use it.

The air cracked with electricity, humid with the smell of ozone as the mage shot off arching blue-white bolts, striking the rogues skirting around the edges.  They fell with a scream, then crumpled, landing in awkward positions, their blood seeping into the paving stones.  Hawke had moved swiftly, ducking and dodging blows while delivering her own with vicious speed and accuracy, daggers flashing in the moonlight.  

The sound of fighting, rich and heavy with curses, grunts, and cries of pain, reached his ears and he knew, before he turned around to deliver another killing blow, that they had won.  It was simple math, really.  Hawke had formed one of the most skilled, dangerous groups in Kirkwall, and instead of using them for ill-begotten gains, she wanted to do some good.  Killing raiders who preyed on the weak and defenseless put a large, positive balance in her ledger as a defender of those who couldn’t do it themselves.

And then it was over. Bodies were strewn around like so much discarded trash. Hawke kicked one of their blades and spat. "Raiders."

He bent down and examined their armor more closely. "Coterie, Hawke, not raiders."

She whipped her head around, surprised etched on her bird-like features. She strode over and knelt down beside him.  He pulled back the hidden flap inside the dead rogue's jacket to reveal the symbol of the Coterie.

Hawke rocked back on her heels, fingers absently stroking the handle of one of her blades.  "Why disguise themselves?"

"Not sure," he replied. It didn't make sense, usually Coterie bands enjoyed flashing the symbol of their power and wealth around. It frightened shopkeepers and peasants, and gave nobles who turned into the wrong alley a moment of pure, crystalline fear before they pissed themselves and emptied their purses all too willingly. Power always corrupts when wielded by those who don't understand its true nature.

Hawke was quiet on the way back, the added weight in their purses not enough to lighten her mood. The Coterie mystery settled like lead in her stomach. Something told her that this was only the beginning. He knew that look on her face and it worried him. She was so young, too young to be caught up in the mire that was Kirkwall, but yet.....here she was.  And there it was... _awareness_.  He felt it like a hand around his throat, pulling on him in so many ways.  He didn't like the look on her face and he didn't want her to worry and he kept imagining all the ways he could take it all away for her.

The company the night of the raider-cum-Coterie attack was fairly pleasurable, their group minus the blood mage and Hawke’s sister hanging around a battered table at The Hanged Man.  Cards were tossed in the middle and coin exchanged. Isabela had laughed gleefully as she took their money and ordered round after round. He'd lost a fair bit of money to her, sneaky thing with an extra card tucked between her breasts or up her wrist guards.

Hawke had stayed quiet, playing and drinking but not engaging in conversation like normal. He'd taken the chance to slip away and linger, no more than a spectre skirting the edges of the dark that crept along the walls of the pub.

And he watched her.  He'd long ago memorized her features, from the depths of her green eyes to the set of her generous mouth. Her face, slightly too interesting to be called beautiful in the traditional sense, was sharp angles, high cheekbones, and a small forehead. Her skin was tanned from too many hours in the sun and she wore no makeup. She wasn't preoccupied with her looks and spent too much time with her face worried in thought.  He preferred it when she smiled.

He slid around the back of the bar, Corff only nodding to him as he grabbed a bottle from the stash in the back room and settled on a small stool well hidden in the dark.  He’d done this many times over the last several months and she had yet to notice.  The patrons of the pub weren’t startled by the man in the corner, bottle in hand, intense eyes narrowed slightly as he fixated on one particular table, so he took his chances that Hawke wouldn't notice him.

The scene before him played out like so many others, both real and imagined.  Aveline threw down a losing hand, accused Isabela of cheating, and the pirate just grinned.  But she knew when she was beat, so she slid Aveline’s coin back across the table, shrugging like the Guard Captain ought to know who exactly she was playing cards with.  Fenris, that broody son of a bitch, sat there half deep into a bottle of wine, winning the occasional hand likely through luck or Isabela’s hope that a few good hands would put him in a more congenial mood she could take advantage of later.

Anders played rather well, but then he remembered the man’s Grey Warden background.  Probably many long nights stuck in the Deep Roads, only firelight and cards and fervent dreams of reaching the surface keeping men like him sane.  At one point, Anders stole the pot from Hawke through some rather inspired bluffing and Hawke had laughed.  That sound, throaty and clear and as sensual as anything he’d ever heard rang out.  A few heads turned, trying to find the source.

He just stared, seeing Hawke like she would have been before Kirkwall and the Blight and the burning of Lothering.  He could envision her at a table in some small bar, surrounded by friends, maybe her sister, as they played and joked and drank.  She was young, this Hawke, not yet tainted by the ugly parts of life that left everyone just a little bitter, a little cynical.

Ostagar and Lothering had made her hard, brittle like glass.  She'd only told him the outline of what had happened when King Cailan was betrayed and her unit was one of the few to survive, but he had an idea of the horrors she had witnessed and taken part in. She reflected every bit of pain and every triumph in that beautiful face.  She loved her family and her friends and, he suspected, had left more than a few lovers in the wake of her fiery passion.  And he wanted to feel that passion, feel it scorch him and take him whole.

“Where did Varric get to?”

His mistress called, he thought with a wry smile.  Hopping off the stool, he slunk in the shadows near the stairs so it would look like he was coming from his room on the second floor.

Hawke caught sight of him and waved, motioning for him to come over.  He answered her by smiling, holding up the bottle.  She understood - the pub’s ale was nearly toxic and Varric, who had the money to buy better, often shared his stash with all of them.

He slid next to her, their legs brushing against each other.  Hawke didn’t notice, but he did.  As he looked up to view her profile in the dim light, she turned to smile down at him.  “Figures you would go get the good stuff.”  She threw her cards down, laughing.  “Aveline, you got me.  I give.”

He sat there and drank, playing and carrying on with everyone.  But the part of him that needed to watch her noticed how she settled next to him, not trying to hold her leg apart from his after a while.  It was such a little thing, just the barest touching of legs, but it held him in place.  He ached for her like a lover left bereft in the middle of the night and the touch of her leg was almost unbearable.

Hawke elbowed him in the side.  He snapped his head around.  “Hello to Varric. Your turn.”

Giving a half-hearted laugh, he threw down a five, watching as it was buried under higher ranking cards.  

“Looks like Varric is off somewhere else,” Isabela teased.  “Having any good daydreams?  I hate the boring ones.”

Varric grunted.  “Counting ledger lines in my head, Rivaini.  Some of us actually work when we’re not out with our esteemed leader.”

Hawke put a hand to her chest.  “Esteemed leader?  Varric, you flatter me.”

His mouth twitched.  “I do love flattering a beautiful woman.”  And he watched, astounded, as a pink flush ran up her cheeks.  But she said nothing about it and kept playing, chatting amicably with Aveline and trying to draw Fenris out of his shell.  The elf did laugh a few times, mostly when Hawke said something clever. And Varric saw that too.

The group slowly started to disband as the hour grew even later, Aveline returning to the barracks with Fenris in tow. Even Hightown was too dangerous to walk alone for the Guard Captain, and Fenris was as good a wingman as any. Isabela had watched the elf depart with hungry eyes, then gradually gave in and fell asleep at another table, head pillowed on one arm, other arm curled around an empty wine bottle.  Hawke let her sleep for a while, then helped the pirate to her room, half carrying her to dump her into bed.

When Hawke returned, Anders and Varric were in the middle of a discussion about the Deep Roads. Well, Varric was talking more but he usually did.

“I know that there are darkspawn in the Deep Roads, Blondie, but after the Blight, their numbers shouldn’t be nearly as high.”

Anders shook his head.  “You can’t underestimate the Deep Roads, Varric.  There are paths and tunnels down there that a human has never, and should never, walk.  It’s more than just ogres and darkspawn.”  He wrapped his hands around an empty mug, his eyes getting a distant look as he remembered the horrors down in the dark.  “There are things - monstrous, awful things down there.  We have to be prepared, ready for anything.”

Varric nodded, a hand held up in complacence.  He didn’t want to get the mage angry.

“So we’ll be prepared,” Hawke replied smoothly as she sat down beside Anders, exchanging his empty mug for a new one.  Varric topped it off with the bottle he’d brought down and Anders drank deeply, needing courage if he was going to talk about the one place to which he did not want to return.

“I’m glad you’re with us, Blondie,” Varric said after Anders stopped drinking to breathe.  “I don’t fancy getting lost in the Deep Roads.  Plus, you put on a hell of a light show, might keep some of the bad stuff at bay.”  Hawke nodded in agreement.

Anders snorted, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table.  “You mean Justice puts on a light show.  Most of that is him.”  He drank again.  “And besides, my information won’t be much good if you don’t decide to take me with you, or I decide that I don’t want to take another chance in that blighted place.”

Hawke slid forward on the table, head propped in her hand so she could look at him.  “Oh, you’re going with us, Anders.  As to whether you want to go or not, you’re our best healer.”  She nudged his knee with hers.  “I’m not intending on getting anyone killed, but if I die, I expect to come back gasping and cursing, not as a stiff board you all have to carry through the Deep Roads.”

“If you die, Hawke, we’ll just leave you for the darkspawn to eat.”

Hawke turned on him.  “Well, aren’t you sweet!  I knew our friendship meant a lot, but not so much that you would let me to rot in the Deep Roads, Varric.  I’m touched.”

Varric bowed his head.  “I do what I can.”  His face grew serious.  “But honestly, Hawke, that is a possibility, one of us dying down there.  Are you ready to accept that?”

Hawke sighed, plunking her head down on the table.  “No.”

“Hawke, it could happen.”

“Not on my watch,” she mumbled.  “Besides, I’m not taking anyone who can’t handle themselves, or has too much to lose.”

Anders paused, then said, “So you’re not taking Bethany.”

Hawke’s head shot up.  “Maker, no!  And don’t you say anything to her.  I know she’s been helping you in the clinic on her days off and you are not to say a thing.”

“Is it because she’s a young mage or -”

Hawke pointed a finger at him.  “She is my sister.  I will not take the chance that my mother will be left alone with my pustule of an uncle, all her children killed by darkspawn filth.”  She brushed her hair back from her eyes, a nervous gesture that had Varric’s eyes narrowing.  It was never good when Hawke got worked up like this.  She was liable to hit something, or someone.  “It has nothing to do with her abilities.  You’ve seen her in action, Anders, you know what she can do.”  Her voice dropped, sorrow and memory pitching it into a different range.  “Father taught her well, taught her control and accuracy and how to hide what she was.”  A ghost of a smile flicked across her face; Varric saw it, but Anders didn’t.  “Also taught her that fireball storm spell you complimented her on a few days ago.  She’s the only mage I know who can do it.”

“She won’t be happy,” Varric said gently.

“She’s my younger sister, she’s never happy when I make decisions for her.”

“Fair enough,” Anders said, catching the warning look Varric had shot him.  “What do you want to know about the Deep Roads?”

They talked for hours, until the first threads of dawn stretched along the horizon.  Anders was half asleep by the time they were finished, and he had started to nod off when Hawke shook him gently, offering to walk him back to Darktown.  Anders had declined, saying that the entrance wasn’t far and he was meeting a merchant this morning for more supplies.  He stood, tottered, shook himself, then walked out of The Hanged Man, looking tired and resigned to the fact that they were, indeed, going into the Deep Roads.

Before he left, however, he’d asked Varric one question the dwarf hadn’t been expecting.  “Why do you call me Blondie?  What’s wrong with my name?”

Varric chuckled.  “Everyone I know gets nicknames.  It gives me something to do and it’s funny when you all respond to them.”

Anders crossed his arms, annoyed.  “I can accept that I guess but...Blondie?”

“Well, you’re blonde.”

“Obviously,” Hawke said dryly, trying to suppress a smile.

Anders squinted in frustration.  “But, why?  Why not just mage, or something like-”

“Healer? Spell-slinger? Darktown rat? Magey magey?” Varric said.  “Because none of those fit you and I like Blondie.”  He leaned back in his chair.  “If it bothers you that much, I’ll stop.”

The mage shook his head.  “No, it’s fine.  I just was wondering.  No one’s ever given me a nickname and not had it mean something derogatory.”  He gazed down at Hawke.  “But you don’t have a nickname for Hawke.”

“Well, she’s Hawke, Blondie.” He paused, eyes narrowing in thought.  “And I get the feeling that Hawke is just getting started in this town.  I mean to exploit that by telling tales of her adventures and heroics, and the best heroes don't have proper nicknames.”  Varric gave her a knowing look.  “I think Hawke has us all beat in the bright and shiny future category.”

It gave her an odd feeling, that look, like he could somehow see years ahead and know what she would do, who she would become.  When he looked at her in that moment, she felt like he’d laid her bare, could see every fear, every hope, every possible path she could take and whether it led to triumph or ruination.

“And besides, Blondie, I do have an informal nickname for Hawke.  I call her beautiful on a daily basis.”

“Well, at least you’re consistent,” Anders said, clapping a hand on Hawke’s shoulder.  Then he left, back to Darktown and his ill patients.

Silence gathered around the table, thick like syrup.  Varric knew he’d said too much.  Hawke looked uncomfortable, fidgeting in her chair and running her fingers along the edge of the small knife she kept sheathed at her hip.

“Hawke,” he said slowly, “is something wrong?”

“No, I’m just tired,” she said.  That was partly true, Varric thought.  She looked exhausted, fatigue running in lines around her eyes and mouth, slouching her shoulders and making her look older.  This was not the Hawke he liked to see.

Varric jerked his head toward the stairs.  “Why don’t you stay here?  Take my bed.”

Hawke shook her head too quickly.  “No, Varric, it’s fine.  Gamlen’s isn’t far from here.”

“You mistook my meaning, Hawke,” Varric replied, coming around the table to tug on her arm.  “It might have been phrased as a question, but what I really meant was you are staying here.  You’re exhausted.”

Hawke let her head fall back against the chair, the sound of skull hitting wood making Varric wince.  “I’m guessing you’re not going to give this up.”

“Nope.”

She sighed.  “Fine, take me to bed.”

Varric wanted to jump on that accidental slip badly, tease her mercilessly but he wasn’t a cruel man.  She was drained and besides, if it went over her head, then he would have wasted a perfectly good joke.  No sense in that.  Varric led her up the stairs, flung open his door, and watched as Hawke collapsed, face first, on the bed.  She didn’t bother to take off her leathers or even unsheathe her daggers.

He shut the door gently and went to her.  Her face had gone slack almost as soon as she hit the bed.  Her body’s immediate response to the bed didn’t shock him, she’d been a soldier and was probably trained to sleep anywhere, so a soft bed was likely a rare pleasure.  And he knew what she slept on at her uncle’s house, nothing more than a pallet covered in straw and a ratty blanket.

He should have known better than to do what he did in the next few moments.  He was an observer, after all, not an active participant.  But she looked uncomfortable and his hands itched to take off her daggers and her boots and throw a blanket over her.  Would she wake up if he did?  What if she awoke, startled, to find him manhandling her?  He doubted Bianca could save him from Hawke.  She was the only one he knew could best him, and yet they’d never sparred, never even gone a round of hand to hand.  

But something grabbed ahold of him.  It started in the back of his mind as an innocent thing, the image of his hands gently removing the sharp and hard pieces on her and making her more comfortable.  But as his eyes traveled the length of her, his mind wandered.  What was pure and simple became twisted with lust.  He wanted to know her, the feel of her skin and the smell of her hair.  How her lips tasted, how sharp her nails would be on his back.  What kind of lover was she, he wondered as he approached her.  Surely passionate, but was she tempestuous, wild and ever changing like the sea, or steady and careful, as warm and enrapturing as the sun?

His hand shook slightly as he reached for the daggers on her back.  With the most precise movements, he slid them free and placed them on a nearby table.  He did the same with the knife at her hip.  He wanted to take her boots off but he didn’t dare - there was too much uncovered skin and he would slip then, just needing to know exactly what she felt like.  So he covered her with a blanket and backed away, breathing hard through his nose.  She was a temptation, this human.  And because of that, she was dangerous to him.  He may be a gentleman, but she would be the end of him, reducing him to nothing but a quivering mass of need and lust, aching for fulfillment from only her.  One day, his control would shatter and he would plead for her.  And she would either end him there or grant his wish.

 _Maker’s balls_ , he thought as he settled at the table and looked down at the ledgers in front of him.   _What did you get yourself into, Varric?  A human?_

 _Yes_ , said a little voice in the back of his mind.   _A human, beautiful and courageous with a smart mouth and a fiery temper.  You want her, need her._

And that was the truth of the matter.  The man who watched her had been getting too close, and now he knew nothing but her.  Despite every doubt and fear he had, he knew that this desire would only be quenched by the love of the woman not ten feet away.

* * *

 

The night before the Deep Roads expedition, Varric was a bundle of nerves.  He tried sleeping but wound up tossing and turning, kicking off blankets and swearing at his traitorous mind.  He rose, dressed, strapped Bianca to his back, and went down to the main floor of the pub.  When he reached the bottom stair he came to a dead stop.

Hawke was sitting at the end of the bar, head down, shoulders hunched.  

Looks like I’m not the only one who can’t sleep, he thought as he approached her.

“Hawke, fancy seeing you here,” he said, trying for levity but wincing when it came out sounding forced.

Hawke spun on her stool, saw him a few feet away and jerked her head to the stool beside hers.  He hopped up, legs not quite reaching the floor, and leaned forward to match her.  “Are we stupid?” she asked softly, back to starting down at the rough wood of the bar.

Shit, Varric thought as he noticed she wasn’t drinking.  Morose and worried all on her own with no influence of alcohol?  Definitely not a good thing the night before they were to trudge into the Deep Roads.

“Uh, Hawke,” he said after a few long moments of silence and purposefully ignoring her question, “don’t you think you should be getting some sleep?  We’re going into the Deep Roads tomorrow and I don’t want to take a darkspawn axe to the head because you fell asleep on the job.”

He kept his tone light, joking like normal but his words got to her all the same.  She rubbed her temples with the heels of her hands and let out a small groan of frustration.  “Why do you always have to be right?  Why can’t I just sit here and mope?”  She looked up at him through a curtain of hair.  “Damn you, why do you always have to be right?”

“It’s a gift, beautiful.  It’s part dwarven intelligence, part luck of my heritage, and partly because I’m just that good.”  He put a hand on her arm, trying to be comforting.  

She stilled, eyes sliding down to look at where he was touching her.  “I’m afraid, Varric,” she whispered, her breath stirring his hair.  “I’m afraid we’re going to go down there and never come back.  That I’m leading you all to your deaths.”

“It’s a chance I’m willing to take,” he said, rubbing her arm.  “I’d follow you anywhere, Hawke.  And for the record, I don’t think we’re going to die down there.  I think we’re going to kick some darkspawn ass and come back richer than gods.”

She reached for him then, lonely and afraid and needing comfort.  Her fingers brushed his face, making him swallow hard.  “How do you know that?  How can you be so sure?”

He savored the feel of her fingers then, but instinct had him wrapping a hand around her wrist and bringing it down.  He had to reject her then - she was acting out of fear and worry.  She wasn’t really attracted to him, she was lost and needing someone else’s warmth to steady her tilting world.  He didn't need to communicate it with anything more than his hand on her wrist and the look in his eyes. 

“I know because I don’t trust easily and because I know you, Hawke,” he said evenly.  “I wouldn’t follow anyone else into that dark place.”

The sting of his rejection made her look away, his kind words not doing anything to soften the blow.  She wanted him, had for months, and now he was turning her away when she needed him the most.  It hurt so much the air in her lungs was sucked away, leaving her breathless and unsteady as she got down from the stool and began to walk away.

“Hawke!” he called, following her.

“Leave me, Varric,” she said, a threat in her voice she’d never directed at him before.

She managed to get out the door and into the cool night air before he caught up with her.  His strong hand on her arm didn’t stop her, she simply tugged it free and began walking back to the hovel she shared with her family.  

“Hawke, goddammit, stop,” he said, his voice heating in anger.  She did and he caught up with her, his hand no longer gentle as he grabbed her arm and turned her around.  

“What is it, Varric?” she asked resignedly.  “According to someone I know, I should be home asleep so my tired, worthless ass doesn’t let a darkspawn axe hit him in the face tomorrow.”

He slashed a hand through the air, cutting her off.  “That’s enough, Hawke.  No more self-pitying shit from you tonight.”  He grabbed the front of her jacket and hauled her down to her knees.  “Maker, woman, you drive me mad.  Is that what you want?”

Hawke’s eyes widened as he stared at her, his gaze settling on her mouth.  “Is this how you want me?” he asked, trying to quell the anger that was tightening his throat.  “Is this what you want?  Because if it was an angry dwarf in your face, you’ve got it right now.”  He shook her gently.  “Why now?  Why wait to come to me?  The Hawke I know doesn’t wait for anything or anyone.  She takes what she wants, make no apologies, and gets things done.”

Her gaze hardened as she jerked to her feet.  “I could ask you the same thing, dwarf.  Why wait to tell me what you wanted?  I know you’re not afraid of me, you’re one of the few people who isn’t.  Did you think I was going to reject you, never speak to you again?”  She wrapped her hand around the one he had curled into her jacket and pulled it away.  “You’re my friend, Varric.  I don’t want a pity fuck from you.”

They were both breathing hard, the anger that had burned so brightly in them now flashing out to embers.  It left him cold and brittle, like a diamond that had been fired too quickly and then set on the edge of a table, teetering and at the will of gravity.  One push, and he would break.

“I don’t fuck out of pity, Hawke,” he said, a low growl in his voice.  “Never believed in it.  Fucking shouldn’t be done with just anyone.”

She barked out a sharp, short laugh, no mirth in it.  “No random fucking for you, then?  Not ever? How quaint.”  She turned green eyes on him, studying his features.  “Is that what I would be?  A random fuck to warm a cold night and then abandon?  You’d take your pleasure and my heart and leave me, ripped open and raw?”

She was pushing him.  He knew it, knew she was baiting him to do something.  Maker help him, he liked it.  This woman pulled at him like a cat batting yarn, unraveling him in all the right places until the whole thing came undone.  His fists clenched at his sides and he leaned forward pushing her back against the wall of the building they’d stopped behind.  She let him, her daggers clanging as they met brick.

He watched her chest rise and fall, the sound of her ragged breathing and his blood roaring in his ears.  “Is that what you want to hear?” he spat, watching her eyes widen slightly.  “That I’d love you and leave you and then follow you around, torturing with my presence?  Do you think so little of me, Hawke?”  He ran a hand up her arm, stopping to grip her shoulder, forcing her down again.  “If that’s the case, then you don’t know me at all.  I am not that kind of man, Hawke.  I would never hurt you like that.”

She tried to shake his grip but he persisted, the other hand coming up to land beside her head, pinning her between his body and the wall.  Her knees bit into the hard ground and the cold air whipped her hair around her face, making her shiver.  Maybe it was the wind, she thought, or maybe it was him.  “You’ve already hurt me, Varric.  You might not have meant to, but you did.”  Her voice dropped.  “I like a little pain, Varric, but not like that, not with words and rejection.”

Her confession startled him.  She took advantage of his lax grip and started to push herself back up but his hands roughly shoved her against the wall, her legs collapsing under her and forcing her to sit on the ground.  He stepped over her, feet on either side of hips.  This was the Varric she had wondered about, when she was alone and wanted a rougher, steadier touch than her own.  She’d teased herself, images flashing through her mind that left her wet and aching and sputtering to a usually unsatisfying climax.

“What do you want from me, Hawke?” he growled as he leaned into her, dropping to his knees.  “It’s been years since someone has pushed me like this, and never this hot for this long.”  He tangled fingers in her windswept hair, jerking her closer.  “Is this it?  You and me in a cold, dirty alley, pressed up against a wall and fucking for all we’re worth?”  He ran the lightest touch down her jaw then cupped her chin in his hand, forcing her to look at him.  “Is this what you want?  I’ll give it to you, but I think we’ll both regret it later.”

Hawke met his eyes, defiant.  “I don’t do things so I can regret them later, Varric.  Like you said, I take what I want, and I make no apologies for it.”  And she wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and brought his mouth crashing down on hers.

It was a thing with teeth, this lust he felt as she slid her mouth open and claimed him.  She was hot to the touch and he felt scalded as she opened beneath him, wild and as changing as the wind before a storm.  He curled his fist in her hair, yanking on her head and eliciting a moan from her.  He touched her, rougher than he meant to, his fingers fumbling at the catch on her jacket and shoving it down.  She’d woven her fingers in his hair and was gripping hard at him.  He knew he’d be bruised later, but it was worth it.

He broke the kiss, gasping for air and looked down.  Her eyes were half lidded in lust, what he could see of their pupils darkened with need.  Lips red from the force of his kiss, she was licking them experimentally as if she could taste him there.  She watched him watching her and smiled slightly, the feral expression shifting her countenance into that of a predator.  

They both needed this, but he didn’t imagine his first time with her in a dank alley in Lowtown.  He looked around, calculating their distance to The Hanged Man and  fighting her busy fingers from stripping him right there.  “Just a damn minute, woman, unless you really do want to fuck in this shitty alley.”

She’d chuckled at his frustration and at the way he, when aroused, used so many dirty words in one sentence.  He alighted on what he had been searching for and hauled her to her feet.  She’d protested, grabbing for him, but a smack on her ass kept her from trying it again.  “Come on,” he said hoarsely, “we’ll go this way.”

“Varric,” she warned as he led her down a darker alley, “where are we going?”  She sniffed, disgust on her face.  “Please tell me not here.”

His hand searched in the dark and he found himself wishing for one of Blondie’s fire spells to cast away the shadows.  His fingers caught on the latch and he swung the door open wide.  “Back entrance to The Hanged Man,” he said swiftly, shoving her inside.

They stumbled through the dark, momentarily getting distracted by Hawke’s roaming, curious hands on his face and back, and they finally collapsed inside the right doorway.  Corff had shown him this passage once he realized Varric was staying long term.  It was a hidden entrance to the back of the pub that lead straight to his room and the back storerooms.  Convenient, if you needed a quick escape and the front door was blocked.

They were barely inside the door when Hawke pressed him against the wall, hungry mouth and tight, flushed body leaving nothing about her to the imagination.  It wasn’t such an awkward position that she had to stoop, she wasn’t much taller than him, and he liked the way she rubbed up against him, little sounds of need rising from the back of her throat.  She kissed like a dying woman, hot hands on every part of his body, her knee between his legs.

Varric groaned as she added pressure against his groin.  “Hawke,” he said roughly against her lips, “bed.”

It took her a minute to process his request but when realization struck her, she pulled back, shrugged off her jacket and weapons, letting the blades clatter to the floor.  Her light leather armor didn’t stay on long either, and it was peeled away to reveal more of her than he’d ever seen.

The sight of her in smallclothes and boots left him aching and he pressed her backwards, nearly shoving her down on the bed before shucking his coat, boots, and shirt so he could come to her and feel the silk of her too-warm skin on his.

Varric ran a hand down her leg, starting at the knee and working to her thigh.  She squirmed and cried out at his touch, demanding more from him.  Her hands wandered, in his hair, down his back, over his arms.  She pushed his hands where she needed him most - her breasts, her neck, her face.  He leaned down and kissed her again, claiming her mouth with a force and heat that stole her breath and left her moaning.

Nimble fingers did away with her breast band and he dipped his head to take one nipple in his mouth.  She arched against him, fingernails scratching down his back and hips meeting his.  Ancestors, he needed her.  He wanted to strip her bare, worship her with hands and mouth, and then wring so much pleasure from her that she was left slack, all thoughts chased from her mind except how he’d pressed against and into her and made her scream.

“Varric,” she whispered softly as she clawed at the catch on his trousers.  He obliged, shoving them down and out of the way before sliding her boots off.  One small piece of fabric kept her from him and he ripped it off, needing to see her.  

She whimpered as his fingers traveled over her thighs, avoiding the one place he knew she needed his touch.  “Hawke, I’d like to savor this a little,” he said, “you laid bare beneath me, begging.”

Hawke thrust her hips up and spread her legs, giving him a good view of just how aroused she was.  “Please, Varric,” she said throatily, “just touch me.”

He’d do more than that.  He flattened himself between her legs and licked her, making her cry out.  His hands held her hips in place as he explored her folds with tongue and lips, tasting the sweet salt of her need.  

“Maker,” she breathed out, hands scrabbling for him, torn between letting him torture her more and hauling him up so he could seat himself inside her.  “Varric, you’re killing me.”

He could tell by the way she clenched around the finger he slid inside her.  “I thought that was the point,” he murmured against the skin of her thigh as he slid another finger in, pumping them in and out and making her gasp.

“Smartass dwarf,” she sputtered, hips lifting to meet the demands of his hand.  He pulled himself up to watch her face contort in pleasure, strands of hair stuck to her forehead.  Ancestors, she was a sight, sweaty and flushed, gripping the sheets and twisting under the ministrations of his hand.  His other hand slid up her hip, her side to cup her breast, fingers twisting her nipple almost too hard.  Her eyes flew open and she growled him, making him smile.

“You said you didn’t mind a little pain, beautiful,” he reminded her as he pumped her hard, the fingers inside her and on her breast becoming more demanding.  He wanted to bring her right to her peak, then enter her and watch how quickly it took her to fly apart.

He flicked his thumb up, brushing against her clit and she went very still, a rattly gasp rising from her throat.  “Varric, I can’t-”

He leaned down and kissed her.  That was her breaking point.  Shoving off his smalls, he pulled her to her knees and settled beneath her.  She needed no explanation. Her hands roamed his body, touching every part of him, stopping to twist his nipples and make him moan.

“Fair is fair,” she said hoarsely.  

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said.  He took a breath and started to tease her more when the wet heat of her mouth enveloped him, stopping all thought.  He hadn’t expected that.  

She nudged his legs apart with her shoulder so she could settle between them, one hand on the base of his cock, the other wandering up his chest to scratch playfully at him.  His hands went into her hair and she moaned appreciatively.  He pulled on her hair experimentally and she groaned again, so he dug his fingers into the strands and yanked on it occasionally, letting her know that she might have his prick in her mouth, but he was still in control.

Maker, she was good at this, her tongue tracing up over the head, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked him.  The beautiful friction of her tongue and _Ancestors, yes_ , her teeth on him had Varric crying out for her, pulling her hair and clamping his legs around her so she couldn’t wiggle away.

She stopped just before he hit the proverbial wall of his lust, popping her mouth off of him so she could crawl over his body.  With no warning or pretense, she sank down on him, taking him to the hilt and rocking on him.  He watched her move above him, hands on his chest and her eyes dark as she gazed down at him.  She smiled, shifted her hips a fraction, and slid one hand underneath him, silently asking for him to rise to meet her.  He did, leveling his hips so he could wrap his arms around her and bury his face in her breasts.  They moved together, their bodies learning the rhythm of each other, pulling gasps and moans from the little things they did to heighten their joined pleasure.

Varric felt the sweat on her back and slid his hands to her hips, helping her as she slid down on him.  He was gripping her hard, enough to leave marks that wouldn’t fade easily, but she didn’t seem to mind.  Rather, she arched into that hot, rough touch, saying his name and tightening the grip she had on his neck.

He felt her walls flutter around him and he knew she was close.  He’d been holding back his own release, not wanting to ruin it by coming inside her moments after she’d taken him in.  “Fuck”, he said softly, making her laugh.

“Fuck is right,” she said, one hand tilting his head back so she could kiss him.  “I can give you this, whenever you want, whenever you need it.”

“What if I want more?” he said before he could stop himself.

She rose up slightly and came down on him, wringing a groan from the back of his throat.  “Then I’ll give you more.”

With that promise out in the open, he thrust up into her, making her scream a little.  She rose to his body’s demands, matching them then meeting her own as she rode him, hands clutching at him.  They kissed once more, a gentle thing that left him breathless, and she took him over the edge with her, both of them crying out sharply.

He came back to the world by degrees, hands finding her and helping her to pull from him and lay down, spooned against him in the sudden quiet of the room.  She snuggled into him, face pressed into his chest, one arm flung carelessly over his waist.

“Hey beautiful,” he said, gently prodding her with a finger.  “Still with me?”  Her noncommittal grunt made him chuckle.  He put two fingers under her chin to draw her face up.  She smiled softly at him.  “I was serious before, about wanting more.”

She lifted an eyebrow.  “So you don’t just want me for my body?”

He smacked her ass lightly, making her wriggle against him.  Maker, she did like it a little rough.  “Not if I can’t have the rest of you too.”

Hawke pulled his head down and kissed him sweetly.  “Then you’ll have the rest of me.”

“Promises, promises,” he replied.  “Well, at least if we all die in the Deep Roads, I went out on a high note.”

She snorted.  “You’re terrible.”

“You know it.”

Shoving at him and laughing, she pulled herself up a little so she could look him in the eyes.  She stared at him for several long moments and finally said, “We aren’t going to die down there tomorrow, or any time soon.”  Running a hand through his hair, she whispered, “It wouldn’t be fair to lose this so quickly after we found each other.”

His fingers touched her lips reverently.  “No, it wouldn’t.”

And she settled back down beside him, content for the first time in years.  They’d found each other and neither one would let go easily.  Darkspawn be damned, it would take a lot more than the Deep Roads to tear them apart.

Betrayal and loss and sadness crept in over the years, but they stayed together.  Even as their city burned around them, they fled side by side, chased by the wolves of their past and the uncertain promise of war and death barrelling at them from all sides. They'd seen the world burn and had survived, and if that couldn't separate them, nothing would.

 


End file.
